The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,45
our tongues, soft presses of our lips. Only when our heartbeats have calmed and evened out do we break apart.
Gazing down at me, adoration swirling in his depths, he brushes his thumb across my cheek and whispers, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
“That,” I say, pressing the nail of my thumb across his lower lip, “is totally worth getting kicked out for.”
He catches my hand and kisses my fingers. “And you, all of you, is worth surviving war for.” He drags his lips back and forth over my knuckles, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re here with me.”
I smile, and it’s so sincere my eyes sting. “I’m here with you.”
His sigh is one of satisfaction as he shifts and rests his face in the crook of my neck. “And you aren’t leaving.”
I sweep my fingers through his hair and emit a sigh of my own. “Never.”
Chapter 11
Ley
Peppered wet kisses all over my face pulls me from the depths of sleep. When I reluctantly open my eyes, Scratch is kneeling by the couch, kissing and nuzzling me like a needy puppy.
A moan emits me as I stretch and glance toward the windows, noticing it is still somewhat dark outside, yet Scratch is sweaty and energized, wearing shorts and sneakers.
“What time is it?” I ask groggily. “And why are you all sweaty?”
“Some time after five, I think.” He kisses my nose and chin and cheek. “Sweaty because I just got back from a good run.”
Huh. My internal alarm clock usually has me up by five each morning, but I suppose things gets thrown off-kilter when I receive good—no, excellent—dicking the night before.
“You’re so confusing,” I murmur through a yawn, covering my mouth to hide my morning breath. “Yesterday you slept until the crowing cocks gave up on trying to wake you. And today you’re up and running while it’s still dark out.”
He sweeps his thumb over my eyebrows. “Yeah, my cycle’s kind of unpredictable. There’ll also be days when I’m too depressed to leave bed at all. Just a heads up.”
“You struggle with depression?” I ask with a frown. Though I’m only half-surprised.
“Kinda. Usually lasts for about a week tops, and then I’m back to normal.” He playfully fondles one of my breasts. “I’m a major jackass when it hits, so I apologize in advance for whatever shit comes out of my mouth during that time. I promise you, I’ll mean none of it. And if I yell for you to leave me alone, don’t. I won’t mean that either.”
With my free hand, I touch the side of his face and promise, “I won’t.”
A mischievous glint in his eyes, he tries to pull my hand away from my mouth. “Now c’mon, lemme smell your stank ass morning breath.”
“No!” I onehandedly fight him off. But he’s stronger than me so, of course, he wins.
“Say ahhhhh.”
“Stop!”
“Ooof!” He keels back on his ass and his eyes roll back in his head as he frantically fans the air in front of his nose. “Baby, you’re pretty but your breath is hhhugly.”
Mortified and indignant, I scramble up and grab one of the throw pillows, smacking him with it. Repeatedly. “You jerk!”
I throw the other two pillows at his head then stomp away. I’m only a few feet off when I’m swept up off the ground fireman style all while he is laughing his stupid face off.
“C’mon, Peach, it’s only a little stank breath,” he teases. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Look at me, I’m all sweaty and gross.”
If only his sweat was gross. No, he’s sweaty and hot and sexy. His sweat doesn’t smell like sweat; it smells like seduction.
Yep, he’s a jerk.
He carries me upstairs and straight into the shower. Despite all his teasing, he pushes me up against the wall and deep-tongue kisses the crap out of me. Morning breath be damned.
This inevitably leads to amazing shower sex and explosive orgasms.
A girl could get used to mornings like this…
~
Fresh from the shower with squeaky clean skin and minty breath, I head back downstairs to prepare breakfast. Tipsy Scoop opens at noon rather than 10 AM on Saturdays, so I don’t have to be in for another few hours.
I slip my earphones in, hit play on Audible, and get to cooking.
When it’s time to eat, Scratch comes downstairs with one of my panties dangling from his middle finger. Red, lace, with double straps at the waist. Nothing special. Except that they’re the same panties he peeled off me with his teeth on the night he deflowered me.